


Rough

by viklikesfic (v_angelique)



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, First Meetings, Gloves, Kink Negotiation, Kneeling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 16:10:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13170468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/v_angelique/pseuds/viklikesfic
Summary: I found this lurking in my Google Drive. I think it was meant to be part of a longer, fully-fleshed out story of the entire evening, but it was easy enough to bring to an ending so it could be posted as is. Q and Sherlock have known each other for ages online, but this is their first in-person encounter. Just an excuse for kinky boyfrands.





	Rough

Once the whole safecall setup with Bond was in place, Q found himself at something of a loss, standing in his sparse but tasteful sitting room and watching Sherlock just stand there observing in his ridiculous coat. He was about to break the ice with an offer of pre-scene tea, maybe get things from there to snogging on the sofa and a bit of encouragement towards strategic application of teeth, when Sherlock slapped him clean across the face.

Q stood, staring, breathing heavily as his thoughts screeched to a halt. He could feel the phantom of leather against his cheek, thuddier than a usual slap but making such a seductive sound. He watched as Sherlock stood silently observing once again and quickly revised his opinions of the man he knew inside out. It didn't matter that Sherlock was an amateur. He knew what he was fucking doing with Q.

Slowly, as Q drew that conclusion, Sherlock removed each glove, unhurried, and stuffed it deep inside a coat pocket. And then, without telegraphing, before Q saw it coming despite his usual prescience, he caught the same cheek with a quick, hard slap. Q's skin stung bright with the heat of it as Sherlock fisted his hair and forced him to his knees. 

"Do you have a safeword?"

Q blinked up, and it took him a full fifteen seconds to answer. "It's a phrase. 'Let me out.'  _ Sherlock.  _ Take me."

Sherlock's lips quirked into a smile. Q didn't yet know his face well enough to distinguish pleased from mocking, and he didn't necessarily care. Sherlock was a snarky bastard, but he was  _ perfect  _ sometimes. Q guessed this was going to be one of those times. "With pleasure," Sherlock purred, deep and thoughtful, his fingers hooking behind Q's bottom teeth and yanking forward slightly. His other hand caressed the warm skin he'd just slapped, and Q wished he could read what was happening behind those eyes. Then Sherlock withdrew his fingers, removed Q's glasses to his coat pocket, stepped around him neatly, and shoved his upper body to the floor with a hand between the shoulderblades. 

Q stopped speculating.

"Stay there," Sherlock ordered, his hands yanking Q's back by the wrists, then more gently guiding him to lace his fingers. He manhandled Q's calves apart slightly so that he was neatly balanced between shins and forehead, his torso pressed to the open V of his thighs and his clasped hands resting just over the no-strike zone of his kidneys, then stepped away.

"What do you normally call your partners?" Sherlock asked, voice coming now from a few feet away. Q still hadn't assimilated that delicious baritone to the stark lines of text he was used to in communicating with Sherlock. He was loathe to say that anything was  _ less _ sexy than a secure IRC chat displaying their stark flirtation next to lines of Q's code that Sherlock would mercilessly comment into the ground (making his freelance projects better, always better), but the way that voice could twist in command had Q at hello. "Sir?" Sherlock suggested, almost a purr. " _ Master _ ?" Perhaps the second was tinged with amusement, but Q's breath caught and he paused a moment before responding.

"I... normally Sir. Occasionally a professional title. I knew a doctor once..." His reminiscence was fond, but cut off abruptly by the sole of Sherlock's Italian leather shoe pressing into his arse.

"You will call  _ me  _ Sir," Sherlock ordered, effectively silencing further recollections. "And you will not forget yourself. I don't suffer fools," he said as he gripped Q's hair and levered him up again, his hands remaining obediently clasped as his thighs strained to hold him in this more challenging spread kneel, arse only a few inches above his heels. Sherlock bent, a ghost of a smile on his face, and put his mouth near Q's. "You, my Quartermaster, are  _ not  _ a fool."

"No, Sir," Q agreed in a rough whisper, though he hoped Sherlock wouldn't test him on it right now with equations. The 00s had called him  _ theirs _ plenty of times, but only with the appropriate degree of professional ownership--my assigned quartermaster, my technical expert, my provider of equipment. The way Sherlock said it made Q's guts twist with desire. He wanted to  _ earn  _ that designation.

"How important is protocol to you?" Sherlock asked, crouching in front of Q and gripping his balls in a casual, familiar way. Not to hurt, not a proper caress. Q's consciousness reverberated with a simple  _ please _ and he hoped he wouldn't get embarrassing too quickly. "Do you need formality? Etiquette?" Sherlock sneered the word, and Q thought of what he knew of Sherlock's brother.

"No, Sir. I  _ need  _ you to take control. The rest is more a question of style." 

"Mm." Sherlock's eyes darted over Q's form again, considering. He stood. Q watched, as he hadn't been told not to, admiring Sherlock's body openly. He'd divested himself of the coat and unbuttoned the top buttons of his silky black shirt, with a third straining just a bit when he stood a certain way. Q mentally cheered that button along, though he wouldn't say no to a clothing disparity in the scene, such as it tended to reinforce things. 

"I've had a tendency in the past," Sherlock mused, circling Q slowly, "to be rather... rough. Unintentionally." The way he said it, sarcasm around the pauses between words, made Q think it was an understatement, hopefully of epic proportions. Perhaps Sherlock had been too much for former partners. God, Q hoped so. "Instinct, I suppose. You might call it desire." That, Sherlock said as if it were foreign to him, and though Q wasn't exactly surprised, he had an intense need to grovel and hurt and debase himself for Sherlock if only it would make him so  _ certain  _ of his desire as to never question its being so again. "I want it to be intentional, with you," he finished, rounding out his circle to stand in front of Q and then take a step forward, towering over him.

"I want to destroy you. I want to be the  _ only _ one who flays you down to that," Sherlock amended, and Q thought he heard a whisper of hesitance in the way Sherlock voiced that desire, but quickly he surged on. 

"How are your thighs?" Sherlock asked with a cruel smirk.

"Starting to ache, Sir," Q answered honestly. He'd been around the block enough times to know not to be a hero with sadists. Bastards exploited everything, and Q wasn't about to count Sherlock out. New to explicit D/s or SM, perhaps, but this wasn't amateur hour. Q got the feeling Sherlock had been bending towards this for a decade, but his peculiar personality wasn't such to get him in with the lifestyle types. Q felt fiercely protective in a way of  _ his  _ dominant,  _ his Sherlock _ , but he filed that thought forcefully away for a time when he wasn't in headspace and basically meeting his Internet boyfriend, as James had snarkily put it, for the first time.

“Good.” Q’s vision was just enough at this distance to see Sherlock’s smirk soften slightly, into a pleased smile, and he promised himself to do everything possible throughout the rest of this scene to keep that expression coming to Sherlock’s lips. He returned the smile, though undoubtedly with redder cheeks, and fought the urge to adjust his position. 

“Shall I make you burn for me?” Sherlock proposed, his voice a low rumble, stepping even closer until his shoes braced one of Q’s thighs and Q had to crane his neck back to keep his gaze on Sherlock’s face.

“ _ Yes _ ,” he begged, exposing his throat and squeezing his own hands together tightly. He couldn’t wait.


End file.
